


Efflorescence

by Arlzureinne_Karale



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8450080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlzureinne_Karale/pseuds/Arlzureinne_Karale
Summary: [#瀬名泉生誕祭2016] They didn't say guilt could bloom into something so beauteous.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ensemble Stars! belong to Happy Element, this oneshot dedicated for Izumi Sena’s Birthday (11/02).

He was born in an interesting world.

But honestly, if he could disappear from this world, he would.

He existed in a world where everytime someone was born, they have a mark on their nape—it depends, but sometimes the mark could reach their cheek and ear, neck and shoulder, upper arm and forehead. He even met with someone whose mark formed to the half of their face once, painted a permanent black line that goes across their eye.

The mark was different between a person and another, and there were no identical mark, almost like fingerprints, only the permanent black ink that did not disolved when people tried to rub it off with countless soaps and endless running water.

At first, it was alright.

His own mark was a beautiful one. Or so people said. The black ink was swirling and formed something akin to tendrils, almost looked like grape vines. One of the stem laid across the side of his neck, the tip of it grows leaves. When he glanced to his neck from the mirror, he could saw the black leaves peeked between strands of platinum hair.

He first understood the use of his mark after he accidentally broke his father’s ceramic vase.

His mother pointed to him about it, and his still young mind did not understand what his mother said. Then nimble fingers found foreign feeling on his hairs, from the nape of his neck. Soft but strange. Curiously, he tried to rip it off his neck to see, but when his fingers pull it, his sight went white, along with extremely burning sensation crawled down his spines.

His mother tugged his six years old self to stood in front of a mirror, and then, he saw it.

Eyes widened, gaze trained to a small bloomed hydrangea grown from his nape. The dark purple of its petals contrasted greatly with his own bright, pale hair. Catching every eye that stared at his form as if mocking him about the mistake he made. His mother then told him a little tale, about the world, the marks, and the flowers.

He was born in an interesting world, indeed.

In a world where everytime someone was born, they have a mark on their nape.

And every time someone made a mistake, everytime someone felt guilt, every time someone sinned and felt regret, a flower will grow from their mark.

 

* * *

 

Izumi Sena was taught to be perfect.

“Don’t make mistake; if you do, don’t feel guilt. Move on, don’t think about it anymore.”

So flowers will not grown from his mark.

So the dark hues of hydrangeas’ petals did not soil his beautiful face—the face of a professional model even when Izumi still in his early teen, the face of a prima ballerina, the face that decorated many magazines’ covers and big screens in Shibuya’s main streets.

His mark indeed did not reached his face, but it did reach the side of his neck.

For many years, he succeed. He could minimalized his feeling, having only one or two hydrangeas bloomed on his nape, formed dark purple-ish shadow beneath his platinum hair that could be easily hidden with collar, coats, or even just better photo angles.

After all, the world only wanted to see the perfect Izumi Sena, the one with a smile so sweet it looks sickening, the one who posed in front of cameras with so much confidence.

Not the real Izumi Sena, the one with a few small purple hydrangeas littered around the back of his neck—bloomed right on his vines-like mark. Not the blue-eyed young man who was desperately running to chase the expectation thrown to him, the one who quietly begged for the time to stop, to stood, to rest, _to breathe_.

The first time Izumi felt heavy guilt perhaps was when his friend and junior—the one that Izumi thought shared the same burdens as himself—forcefully pushed the platinum-haired teen out of his world and left his job as model under two words; undefined hiatus.

It was Makoto Yuuki.

Izumi, too, knew it was his fault.

But he tried to ignore the fact and move on. Hoping Makoto will forgive him, and they could start anew. Maybe not in modeling world, Izumi once heard Makoto will apply to an idol academy after the blond-haired young man take hiatus, Izumi will try his luck there.

But who was he kidding?

Izumi would wake up with heavy feeling lodged in his chest, crushing him, tore everything apart until nothing remained. It was the first time he felt guilt at its finest, how the world seemed to darken and everything became meaningless—even his breath and heartbeat.

Ever since Makoto left modeling, every morning, Izumi would find a new hydrangea bloomed on him. Slowly creeping to the side of his neck, created shades of purple beneath his hair, almost laughing and mocking him, as if screaming to him; everything was Izumi’s fault.

Izumi thought it will never stop.

He passed Yumenosaki Academy’s test and enrolled as a student, patiently waited for the day he met Makoto and hopefully to piece together whatever remained between them as one again.

But when the hydrangeas finally reached the side of his neck, bloomed for everyone to see, grown to prove his sin and endless regret, it stopped.

(And Izumi repeatedly told himself it was because Makoto finally forgave him.)

The second time Izumi felt heavy guilt was when he saw Tsukinaga Leo walked off the stage. Shoulders slumped, one hand clutched the mic with so much power the tips of his fingers turned white. Izumi could hear the cheers from his place in the back of the stage loud and crystal clear, as if the audience were satisfied with Leo’s failure to reach victory.

Izumi saw how Leo’s other hand gripped—clawed his chest tightly, roughly, desperately, as if the twilight-haired King tried to ensure his heartbeat still there.

As if Tsukinaga Leo tried to make sure he was still alive, he was still breathing, _still_ _existing_.

Leo walked through him, almost staggering. Almost like everytime he breathe was a shattered dream, every time he blinks was a destroyed delusion. Peridot eyes empty, and no matter how many times Izumi tried to take a look inside of Leo’s usually sparkled universe, there was nothing that remained.

Izumi did not say anything.

(He has no interest in stroking against a broken dream.)

(Or so, he said.)

And when Izumi passed the window by hallway to return home, a new flower bloomed on his neck. Too close to his throat, bloomed almost way too far from his mark. Seemed very out of place because even the real hydrangeas grow in a big chunk of leaves and crowd together.

Izumi did not understand, why did he felt guilty?

It was not his fault, it was never his fault.

But the familiar heavy feeling came back, crushed his chest with more power than Izumi could remember, strangled his throat with every bit of his breath. His unconsciousness kept playing Leo’s song that he found pleasant to listen—the same melody Leo sang on this afternoon’s stage—again, again, and again, over, over, and over, _and over again_.

In morning, he woke up with blurry sight and strange feeling on his cheek.

Izumi scrambled to the mirror in the other side of his room, almost tripped. Blue eyes widened when he caught the sight of himself. Still clad on his pajama, with few bloomed hydrangeas scattered across his cheek, really way too far from his mark.

His panicked footsteps brought his mother’s attention.

“Izumi- _chan_?”

The said young man flinched.

His mother opened the door when Izumi did not answer. Blue eyes blinked when she caught shades of purple on Izumi’s face. Her voice soften when she asked, “What happened?”

(Leo’s dream was shattered. And it was not Izumi’s fault.)

Izumi gave up, “It is possible for the flowers growing way too far from the mark?” his voice dry and hoarse, and honestly, he was disgusted with his own voice. Not mention the unpleasant feeling of cotton-ish texture on his lips everytime he woke up from sleep.

His mother paused, then nodded. Eyes did not left her son’s stressed visage, “Yes, it’s possible. If you have so much guilt in your heart,  the flowers will grow out of the mark.”

His mother did not said anything anymore, but Izumi heard it loud and clear.

That day, Leo did not come to school.

And by the end of the day, two hydrangeas grown on Izumi’s face. One on the side of his eyebrow. The other one was right underneath his left eye, the soft petals uncomfortably tickled his eyelid everytime he blinked, and he was so tempted to rip it off.

The day after that, still no Leo.

And the day after that.

Then after that, and after that, after that, _and after that_.

“Secchan.”

Izumi turned, one eyebrow raised when he caught the sight of Sakuma Ritsu slumped in the corner of empty classroom saved for the two of them, red eyes opened unusually wide. And even from the place Izumi sat in the center of classroom, he could see dark hues of lobelias’ petals bloomed down from Ritsu’s nape to his right shoulder.

Ritsu’s voice still heavy of sleep “Can you see me?”

Izumi scoffed, “What kind of question is that?”

His dark-haired friend did not answered. Instead, Ritsu’s eyelids flutter closed again, as if he only woke up to confirmed Izumi was still there. The youngest Sakuma’s voice softened, no more than mumbles, “Just making sure.”

After all, Izumi’s flowers already grown to cover his left eye.

One hydrangea bloomed right on his eyelid, changed larimar-colored eye to a shades of beautiful last seconds’ twilight sky. And then every morning, the other flowers just grow around his left eye suddenly, rapidly, without mercy.

Half of Izumi’s face was already full of flowers

Of his endlessly blooming regret.

“So this is what they called guilt, huh.”

And Izumi wondered how Tenshouin Eichi’s bright, yellow buttercups only bloomed to his throat—formed a neat line akin to necklace underneath his chin and strands of blond hair. Or Sakuma Rei’s red euphrobia that bloomed down his collarbone. Or even Hakaze Kaoru’s pale chicory that grown sparingly scattered on his nape down to his spine.

But life still goes on.

At some point, Izumi’s flowers stopped grown rapidly.

But it was not stop completely.

Once a week, a new hydrangea emerged. Either somewhere in his face or neck.

As if they whispered to him; the guilt dulled, but it was there.

(After all, Leo’s dream was shattered. And it was not Izumi’s fault.)

Izumi picked Leo’s sword and take his place as stand-in leader—he duel in Leo’s place.

Ritsu followed him without words, not even a question or whispers, and sometimes, Izumi could see new flower bloomed on Ritsu’s neck. But Izumi did not say anything—he never say anything. Time never stops, and Narukami Arashi came to help them mend their dreams.

Then Tsukasa Suou.

Then a brown-haired girl with so much regret, azaleas grown from her nape down to her right palm, scattered on her cheek and throat, formed a constellation of pink petals.

It was when Tsukasa said suddenly, in the middle of their practice, “I want to see what kind of person is our Leader,” his voice serene and hopeful, and Izumi could felt a new flower bloomed behind his hear, sprouted out of heavy feeling in his chest.

“He is ... interesting,” Narukami answered, violet eyes peeked between petals the colours of late seconds’ morning, bluebells daintyly wrapped around strands of blonde hair like eternally blooming flower crown.

Tsukasa gazed at Izumi, head tilted to one side.

But they left it just like that.

(And Izumi wondered if his flower could grow new branches after his face is full of its petals.)

That night, after a long day of school and practice—and extra time to threatened Ritsu that Izumi will threw him to Rei’s arms if Ritsu did not wake up—Izumi suddenly have a urge to took a long way to go home. After all, the night was still young, and he did not go to school with his motorcycle today.

He honestly did not expect to met Anzu along the way.

Izumi never met Anzu after school beside Knights’ scheduled practices or incidental meeting in the hallway, he did knew Trickstar’s members alternately walk her home, since he saw Makoto walked with her after school once or twice.

(No, he was totally not following them.)

(Okay, maybe just halfway Anzu’s home.)

And somehow, seeing her stood alone in the middle of park irked him so much.

He quickly walked to her, hand gripped her shoulder, and Izumi scoffed when Anzu flinched, “What are you doing here?” voice dripped with warning and a hint of anger. Honestly, what kind of girl stood alone in a deserted park, doing nothing like an idiot? There was indeed no incident of kiddnaping around here, since it was so close to Yumenosaki, but still.

Anzu cringed, then gestured one hand to a new form Izumi did not see the first time.

He could recognized that twilight-colored hair anywhere.

Leo crouched down in the center of sandbox, humming to himself while writing something with his fingers. Blue morning glory peeked between his hair, scattered around his neck up to his cheek, following Leo’s mark of swirled lines that continuing across his right eye.

The last time Izumi met him, Leo’s morning glory only reached the side of his neck.

Anzu tapped Leo’s shoulder, once and he did not budge, twice and he still hummed, thrice and finally he snapped, “Wha—nooo!? The melody is disappearing, it’s disappearing! Uuurgh! What do you want!?” peridot eye gleamed with dead hopes, one particular morning glory bloomed right on his eyelid, much like Izumi’s, but still following its marked path.

Leo’s gaze caught Izumi’s form first.

“Ooh! If it’s not Sena! Looks grumpy as always! It’s been a while, right? What are you doing here? Wait, wait! Don’t answer it, let me fantasize it! The world will be a boring place without mysteries after all, wahahahaha~!”

Leo was changed.

(But at least, he was here. And Izumi was there.)

Izumi’s shoulders slumped, he sighed heavily.

But then, a tiny smile bloomed in his face, much like hydrangeas after rain.

“Welcome back.”

And purple petals fallen from his left eye, slowly, surely, gladly.

**.**

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Izumi! Thank you for pushed this miserable excuse of human deeper into Enstars hell.
> 
> Aru insisted to write it in english, and there you go~! Big thanks to Freyyyy for proofreading it, honestly, never thought this fic could be finished. This is an old AU that inspired by a saying; "When you die, flower will grow from your wound," and it seemed ironically beautiful and so-angsty-material.
> 
> Hydrangeas in general mean gratitude or heartlessness, and purple hydrangeas symbolize a desire to deeply understand someone. Leo's morning glory symbolize broken hope, Ritsu's lobelia symbolize malevolence, Naru's bluebell is humility, and Tsukasa's flower is actually edelweiss, it symbolize noble purity.
> 
> Last, sorry for any grammar mistakes, thank you for reading~!  
> -Azureinne K.


End file.
